2 Plus 2 Equals
by npeg
Summary: Consider this story's chapters as snapshots, each part of the larger story of Tony and Steve, each contributing to explaining and documenting the budding romance between the two Avengers. Each chapter a moment, in a vast collection of moments, when Steve Rogers and Tony Stark wonder whether there might be something different about their friendship after all.
1. Showers and Bath Towels

Just a little stand-alone implied Steve/Tony bathroom drabble, Tony POV!

Tony nicks himself with his razor and swears loudly. A bead of blood wells quickly in the cut and he dabs at it with tissue, grumbling under his breath as bright red stains blossom on the white material.

The shower on the other side of the wall in front of him hisses and stops as Steve turns the faucet off.

Tony hears him whistling as he steps out of the shower cubicle, some old song by Dean Martin, and then he starts to sing, words drifting in the air, and Tony vaguely admits that the captain has a pretty good singing voice.

He carelessly discards his razor and pats cologne on his skin, wincing at the sting of it on his cut. Footsteps pad across the tiles behind the wall and there is a rustling of fabric as Tony assumes the captain takes a soft, white towel from the rack to dry his hair.

And suddenly, he's curious.

He sneaks a peek, eyes appearing round the left of the wall.

The captain is stood in front of his own mirror, still humming, wearing nothing but a towel, and a small one at that, Tony notes with a raised eyebrow. He wonders distantly if someone hid all the bath towels on purpose. Then he shakes his head to clear the thought as it wanders off down an _entirely_ inappropriate path of its own accord.

_Still_…

He looks again, fingers curling round the corner tiles.

Tendrils of wet hair clinging to the back of his neck, water droplets glitter on the captain's damp skin, and several run down his back, trickling into the dimples at the base, collecting in the hollows of the muscle, and Tony realises that he is unashamedly staring now.

He turns back to his mirror, and slaps himself quietly in the face with one hand, muttering, "Nope, _no_, don't think so. Tony, you do _not_ fancy Captain America."

He looks at himself reflected in the mirror and raises one eyebrow.

"_Yeah, right_," he breathes, in an exasperated sigh.

Slowly, he leans back again.

Steve is towel-drying his hair, whistling. The rough motion makes the towel round his waist begin to slip, and just before he bares everything, the captain catches it with one hand, but not before he reveals his naked ass.

Tony exhales, eyes wide, "Oh… my…" but the captain quickly pulls the towel up round his waist again, firmly tucking the edge in place.

Tony can see the captain's blush in the mirror.

He whips back, hands on the edge of the sink, repeating the word "no" over and over under his breath.

He shakes his head roughly, attempting to banish the thoughts and urges whispering in his ear.

"God damnit _get a hold of yourself, Stark_. You are _not_ allowed to want to have sex with _Steve Rogers_!"

He exhales slowly, unsteadily, and his breath is a mist on the mirror as he leans forward to press his forehead against the cold glass.

Then he mutters, absently, "He does have a _fantastic_ ass, though."


	2. Coffee

_A/N: so! i've been trawling through my files and folders on the hunt for WIP, unfinished, or unpublished scribblings, and i found a few of them that just don't quite fit with DIASOS enough to be published within that work (the story is too far down the line for these to slot in comfortably), but they still form a delicious basis for the Steve/Tony pairing, nonetheless. and dang it all, i wanted to put them out there for your viewing pleasure, my darlings! frankly, they all but _demanded_ to be unleashed upon the world :P_

_i've decided to include _Showers and Bath Towels_ in this "series" and reassign it as Chapter 1 (though it was already posted here some time ago as a crack one-shot) instead of creating a new "story"; quite simply because it just happens to fit with the tone of this little "collection"!_

_and so, with no further ado whatsoever!, i give you, _Coffee_!_ n.n

* * *

"_God damn son of a bitch mother _fucking_-!"_

Steam and smoke curl in the air and the machine in front of him gurgles unhappily, sparking and crackling, red light flashing, and black sludge oozes from various crevices. There is half-brewed coffee and ground bean splatter everywhere.

Tony is swearing, loudly and colourfully.

He looks down at himself in disbelief; his arms spread wide, hands and arms dripping black liquid, and huffs in exasperation.

"I just put these fucking jeans on _ten minutes ago_, and _this t-shirt is Armani_!" he whines, "I mean- God _damn it_ I look like a Jackson _fucking_ Pollock- **_JARVIS_**?"

He shakes his hands, sending droplets of coffee spraying across the work top, as he regards the smoking wreckage of the espresso machine in front of him.

"Good morning, sir," JARVIS intones gently over the intercom.

Tony raises his eyebrows to the ceiling and snatches up a damp cloth from the sink. He pats at his clothes with it.

The stains don't come out.

Frustrated, Tony snaps, tone clipped, "Don't "Good morning, sir" _me_, JARVIS, this fucking mess does _not _count as a "good" morning. Who the _fuck_ has been using the espresso machine _this_ time?!"

The AI makes a noise not unlike someone clearing their throat.

"I imagine it was Thor, sir. He still hasn't quite managed to operate it without…" and the AI pauses, finding the right word, "…_casualities_."

Tony makes an angry sound and flings the cloth back into the sink.

"I could have guessed," he growls.

"Should I have the cleaning staff remove the machine and tidy up, sir? And perhaps lay out a new t-shirt?" JARVIS asks.

Tony shoots a dark look at the machine, "I can find my own t-shirt, JARVIS, Jesus, I'm not a child. No, just, call Happy. Get him to bring me two double espressos; save the second one for later. I'll want it in an hour or two."

He pulls at his ruined t-shirt, the previously pristine white now a mess of beige and brown spatter marks. He winces at the tender skin underneath when he presses his hand to it, overwarm beneath his fingers.

He sighs.

"Great, _that's_ a burn."

He looks at his arms and notes splotches of red also peppering his hands and forearms, though they hurt less than his stomach. But only just.

He fishes the cloth back out of the sink and runs it under cold water to wash away the coffee, then wraps it round a handful of ice promptly dispensed by the icemaker and presses it to the red skin of his stomach, sighing at the sensation.

He eyes the coffee mess irritably.

"Hey, JARVIS? Find me a replacement machine by this afternoon, will you? If it isn't sitting in that exact spot by 2pm I swear to God I will kill something. Or someone. Probably Thor, seeing as this is his fault…" he mutters, "Blundering idiot."

"Sir," JARVIS replies, complying.

Tony shoots one last disgruntled look at the hissing wreck of the espresso machine, and dismisses it with a wave of his hand. It's too early to be fixing domestic appliances, and too boring for that matter, hardly worth his attention. They're so primitive. Why fix them when they can just be replaced?

Makeshift compress cool against his burn, Tony exits the kitchen, bare feet scuffing the tiles.

He clumsily peels off his ruined t-shirt with one hand – _and let's face it, it _is_ ruined, because regardless of what the commercials say, coffee stains never really come out, he's had enough to know _– and he scrunches it up in his hand, agitatedly muttering to himself about technologically-incompetent Asgardian wrecking ball _squatters_.

A door further down the hall ahead of him opens and closes, and Tony hears footsteps approaching. In a moment, a familiar blonde and outrageously (_indecently_ even) well-built figure appears round the corner, still groggy from sleep.

Steve yawns, "Morning, Tony."

Tony merely waves the hand holding his t-shirt in mute response and trudges past him.

Steve blinks, rubbing sleep from his eye.

"Hey, what's with the…" he trails off, blinking.

Then he motions at the billionaire, brow furrowed.

"You're, uh, you're… half-naked."

"So observant", Tony grumbles quietly to himself.

Steve scratches his head, clearly not quite awake yet.

"Remind me why you're half naked?"

His back still to the captain, Tony sighs in exasperation, shoulders heaving overdramatically.

He turns on his heel, and flicks out the t-shirt in his hand to showcase the damage, like a Toreador with a red flag. His icepack drips on the floor as its contents begin to melt.

"_This_ is why I do _not_ approve of Thor being given free run of the house," Tony growls.

He turns to the ceiling and points an accusing finger.

"_My _house, JARVIS, _my _house! Next time? _Stop _him before he destroys one of the only things I truly love and need in this world! _You hear me?!_"

Tony throws the t-shirt across one shoulder, grumbling, "Fucking thunder god owes me a new coffee machine," and absent-mindedly wipes his free hand down the flat of his stomach where the scalding liquid soaked through, skin now cool and damp from the compress, some tiny beads of water still clinging to it. The burn itches under his fingers.

"You see here?" Tony points to the red blotches dappled across his skin, "I actually got _burned_. Look, _look_ at the burn!"

And he looks up to find Steve is indeed looking at the burn, intently. Very intently.

Rather _too_ intently, in fact.

Tony's eyes flick from his stomach, to Steve staring at it, and bizarrely he feels flustered, nervous almost. He waves his free hand in front of Steve's gaze, breaking it.

"Steve? Eyes up here buddy."

Steve's head snaps up and he blinks a few times, as if coming out of a daze.

"Sorry, what?"

Tony laughs, "Burn's not that interesting, Cap, we're not talking degrees here. I'll live, promise."

Again, Steve blinks once, twice, and then suddenly shakes his head.

"Oh," he fumbles, with a strange little laugh, "Sorry, I, uh, I'm not really awake yet, so I'm a little- I mean I just got up and, uh…"

And he pauses, "Wait, actually, what are _you_ doing up? Isn't it-"

He checks his watch, and gives Tony a puzzled look.

"Tony, it's 6:23am. Why the hell are you even awake?"

Tony shrugs, feeling vaguely uncomfortable at his half-nakedness all of a sudden, very aware now of his lack of clothing. He smiles a little quirk of a smile.

"Oh I just, uh, woke up," he shrugs. Then he crosses his arms over his chest, trying to cover more of himself, strangely self-conscious.

He continues vaguely, "I just woke up. Stuff on my mind, y'know. The usual."

Steve scratches the back of his head again, nodding.

"No, no, I get it. I know the feeling."

The two men stand a few paces apart, not quite making eye contact.

Tony finally realises that the captain is wearing shorts. Very _short_ shorts.

He drags his eyes upward, not without some _considerable_ effort on his part, and, hoping Steve didn't notice his wandering eyes, brings his hands together and says, drawn out, "_So_…"

"So," Steve smiles, "Well, um, I'm gonna go grab a coffee, you want one?"

Tony raises an eyebrow and pats the ruined shirt slung over his shoulder to remind him of the situation.

"Ah," Steve slumps.

"Yeah, "ah" exactly. No espresso machine. Espresso machine go boom. Plus," he gestures at his torso, "No shirt. And, unsurprisingly? This icepack is making me kinda cold."

The captain rubs his chin, "Y'know, I can put a pot on, if you still want that coffee?"

"Uh, yeah, sure, why not?" Tony replies, not sure why he hadn't thought of that first, and Steve smiles again, turning toward the kitchen.

"You gonna be in the lab?" the captain asks over his shoulder, and when Tony nods, he says, "Great, I'll bring it down."

Tony watches him jog down the hall to the kitchen –_and really, who jogs at this Godforsaken time of day?_ – and he realises that he's staring at the way the fabric of Steve's own white t-shirt clings to his shoulder blades, the curve of his back, the muscle of his arms...

He shakes himself, confused, and scrubs a hand roughly over his face.

"Okay, _that_ was weird," he mutters out loud.

Tony turns and begins to make his way back to the lab.

Steve's voice comes floating down the hallway, "You take your coffee black, right?"

"Yeah, and no sugar," Tony calls back.

He recalls Steve staring at him and runs his fingers over the fading red scald mark on his stomach.

"Pervy old man," he mutters, sloping off towards his lab.


	3. Playing Truant

_A/N: another previously unpublished snippet!_

_Summary: Steve hates these fancy functions. They make him feel like a dancing monkey all over again. So he steps out for a breather._

* * *

The night air is cool against his skin. A thousand scents assail him and he wonders how exactly he managed without the ability to feel such depth of things before the serum changed him. The scents caught in the air could almost paint a picture of his surroundings without Steve even needing to open his eyes. And they do.

His hair brushes across his face as the wind catches it, tickling his nose. He brushes it absent-mindedly aside.

He hates these fancy functions. The glitz, the glamour, the insufferable brown-nosing of people with too much money and not enough class, rubbing up against each other in a shallow, drunken stupor, draping themselves in their wealth as if that actually means something. It's practically obscene. And for a kid that grew up in the Depression, used to having next to nothing, to never having enough of _anything –_ it's a little too much to cope with sometimes. It's an insult to what he had to live through. And yet he can't quite bring himself to blame them for being so ruined by their material wealth. He'd seen it in his own time, though much more rarely, and he saw it here, too. It was one thing that time hadn't changed, but he couldn't bring himself to be comforted by that fact.

But if he's honest, the worst thing of all is the fact that the way they trot him out at these vile things makes him feel like a dancing monkey all over again. And he hates that with a passion.

Sometimes there are so many people pressing in around him, crowding him, demanding his attention and his time, that his chest gets just a little too tight and he just needs to _leave_.

So he makes some feeble excuse and slips as quietly as he can from the crush, to a fire escape, a back door, a stage entrance (oh, the irony), or sometimes _–_ like tonight, to a balcony.

He takes in a long, deep breath and exhales slowly, savouring the myriad of scents as they wash over him, and for a moment he feels like he can almost taste the night. It calms him, and it's almost enough.

He feels a presence appear beside him and knows from the sudden heady fragrance of that familiar cologne who it is that stands there.

"Tony," he nods.

"Not enjoying the party, Rogers?" The man at his side enquires, and Steve can hear the ice chinking in his glass as he swirls it, can smell the cologne on his skin, the whisky on his lips. He smiles slightly, eyes still closed.

"It's just the, y'know, the crowds… You know what I'm like in, uh…" He makes a vague gesture with his hand in the air, and Tony chuckles.

"High society? Polite company? Yeah I know, I know. I hate these people, too."

He hears Tony turn to face him, back leaning up against the railing he stands beside. He opens his eyes slowly, and the sight of Tony – in some very fine tailoring, he notes – brings a smiling curling to his lips. The man certainly knows how to dress, if nothing else.

The billionaire takes a sip of his drink and waves around him at the balcony.

"How long're you planning on hiding out here in the shrubbery, Rogers?"

There is laughter in his eyes as he asks, and Steve allows himself a somewhat dark chuckle as well.

"If I was allowed? If this _wasn't_ a function that specifically required _my_ presence?"

He stares out at the horizon and murmurs,

"All night."

A sigh escapes him.

Silhouetted against the glowing city at night, Steve really does cut an impressive figure. Broad shoulders, long, long legs, and every inch of him strong and sure. _He looks damn good in a tux_, Tony thinks to himself.

He swirls the whisky glass in his hand.

"Y'know, you only have to say the word and I can whisk us out of here."

Steve blinks up at him.

"What, ditch the party?" He asks, quizzical.

"Sure," Tony shrugs, "Why not."

"But I'm the guest of honour."

Tony looks amused.

"So? You've done your bit. You showed up, let people paw at you with their sweaty little hands. You've been here for six hours straight, Steve, putting up with this crap. God knows that's longer than I have, and I'm used to it, I'm practically immune to the bullshit. I know how much you hate these things."

Steve makes to open his mouth to protest but the billionaire raises a finger, shushing him, "Ah, ah, don't even _try_ to lie," so he purses his lips instead.

Tony shrugs again, "I think you've done enough for one night."

And after a moment, Steve's mouth spreads into a smile of gratitude so wide that Tony wonders how it doesn't hurt.

Grinning, the captain says, "Well, when you put it like that, I suppose I could justify a swift exit. Think they'll miss me?"

And Tony smiles back, "Oh I know they will, Captain. You're the belle of the ball. But they'll live… Most likely."

He hails Happy with a brief swipe of his fingertips across the screen of his phone, finishes his drink, and sets the glass down on the balcony railing.

Then, he proffers his elbow to the much taller man, who can't help but laugh at the gesture. Tony smiles.

"Shall we?"


	4. Sunlit Melody

___Summary: _Steve had forgotten that Tony could play the piano.

_A/N: __i stumbled across this little piece as i was searching my files for a different WIP and realised i'd never published it! tut tut_

* * *

There, again, somewhere down the winding corridors of the mansion, came the faint echo of piano keys, a slow melody caught and distorted by wooden panels, by metal and glass, carpet and corners.  
The sound skated across the surface of floors and walls, of ceilings, glided and shivered and pulsed through the hallways.

Steve tilted his head.

The notes were soft, the harmony sad, and the music lilted and turned in swaying bars, almost heavy with emotion, in the same way thick cloth felt when held in the palm of a hand, like folds of crushed velvet slipping between deft fingers.

He'd forgotten that Tony could play the piano.

His feet carried him to the soft quiet dark of the music room before he thought to stop himself from intruding. Interrupting a man lost in music was nothing if not cruel, and as Steve's fingers curled at the frame of the doorway, he stopped just outside, and hung back a breath.

With a pool of light about his shoulders, casting ripples along his hands as the boughs of trees moved in the wind outside, Tony's fingers all but caressed the ivory keys, gentle as a lover's, and the piano sang beneath them. His eyes were closed, and his body moved but slightly, swaying, as he drifted between this plane and the next, the melody carrying him further with each progressing chord. His eyebrows knitted and parted again, his face a picture in itself as the piece moved through him, from muscle and bone to wood and metal, from body to birth through the elegant black form of the grand piano at which he sat, hands dancing.

Steve's breath was swallowed in his ears, eclipsed by the music, and as the notes swept upwards, the tone of the piece slipping free of the melancholy weight it had known, it evolved, became transcendent, and Tony moved with it. His fingers increased in speed, the complexity of the notes weaving ever more intricately between them, about them, and a smile sang his eyes, creases of laughter appearing at the corners of his mouth, upturned.  
In the pool of light from the dying sun, Tony was resplendent, his form awash with gold. Rays caught the hinges of the instrument, glinting up into Steve's eyes, and he blinked at the light seeking to blind him. He threw a hand up to shield his vision, and as he did, Tony's own hands stilled against the keys, the harmony they were creating cruelly and abruptly halted.

The apology was already formed upon Steve's lips but Tony didn't let him give it voice. He turned his head, just slightly, and with eyes half-covered by lids heavy with the weight and power contained in the music he was bound in, Tony smiled.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" he murmured, and his eyes slid closed as the warm sun kissed his cheeks through the window glass.

Steve nodded, his hand lowering in the same moment.  
"Where did you learn to play like that?" he asked quietly.  
"My mother," said Tony, smiling. "She taught me. Always wanted me to do something more… delicate with my hands," he chuckled, "More refined."  
"Why haven't I ever heard you play before?" Steve asked, taking small steps into the room. Tony simply shrugged.  
"Guess I just haven't had the urge to play in… well, years, actually." Tony smiled down at the piano then, fingers gently brushing the keys, and added, "I didn't even realise I'd missed it until I started playing…"

"You're good," said Steve, "Very good."  
Tony smiled widely up at him at the comment.  
"Used to be better," he shrugged, cracking his knuckles, "I'm more than a little out of practice."  
Steve nodded, leaning against the piano now.  
"When was the last time you played?"  
"Must be, what, 10 years?" Tony answered after a moment's thought.  
And Steve laughed at that.  
"Just a little then," he said, teasing.  
"Hey, give a guy a break, Rogers," Tony smiled back. "I haven't exactly been sat on my thumbs around here, y'know. It's pretty busy being me."  
Steve shook his head and rested a hand on the smooth sleek edge of the piano. "You can never be too busy for something like this," he murmured, still smiling to himself, thumb tracing the lip of the lid, "There's always time for beautiful music."  
"Didn't know you were such a sucker for classical piano," nudged Tony, now his turn to tease.  
The captain simply shrugged. "Must be the way you play it," he answered softly after a moment, a different sort of light in his eyes.

His fingers curled at the shelf edge, reaching over, and Tony brushed his knuckles across the back of Steve's fingers then, smiling. His eyes came up slowly, slipping along the captain's arm, across his shoulder and up his neck to alight on his face, meeting the piercing blue eyes that looked down at him.  
"Are you going to finish the piece?" Steve asked, his voice soft.  
And Tony smiled, inclining his head in a slight nod. "For you, sweetheart – of course."  
His fingers dipped back to the keys as he added, "How could I refuse a beauty like you a damn thing?"

Steve leaned down and kissed him with a smile on his lips, murmuring against the soft curve of his mouth,  
"You never could."


End file.
